


doing the right thing

by unrequitedexistence



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, berena - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 04:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8387611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unrequitedexistence/pseuds/unrequitedexistence
Summary: She's chosen to stay.
Serena understands, but she needs some closure.





	

Whoever had established hate as an emotion, as a physical _thing_ of existence residing _precisely_ across the street from love, had undoubtedly never fallen for anyone, for any _thing_ … had never, without a shadow of a doubt, felt _unrequited_.

Wishful thinking.

There had never been space between the two – not a step, not an inch, not a breath, let alone a boulevard where to conveniently abandon unwanted memories from times of warmth that now had the sun tasting of ice.

When you opened the door to one, you opened the door to them both – and they took, they _claimed_ , their space, as if royalty denied of a throne, starved of _power_ , for far too long.

If she had been quick to recognize the symptoms before, this particular form of treatment had been penned by her own hand lifetimes ago that suddenly felt of _just yesterday_ – the Campbell manoeuver.

Acknowledging each and every rough edge with skin that would scar, that would eventually begin to swallow the sharpness, to smooth it into history that would then breathe with her, _rise_ with her, instead of attempting to suffocate her under the false weight of avoidance.

_Viscerally_ … alive.

The dense particles of dust, the _ashes_ of hatred, were encouraged to settle, revealing the apocalypse to be just another storm craving unwavering attention, wanting to be looked in the eye, _needing_ to be both consumed and consummated.

She had _chosen_ to stay.

Serena was utterly, perhaps irrevocably, _disappointed_.

She had considered it. The thought had found her some late night and a glass of wine had become two and then three and then a whole bottle that had her early night a late morning.

She had been startled awake by an anxious rapping on her door. _Jason_. For once she had wished he would have barged in and attempted to soothe her – but this wasn’t a nightmare, just a _slightly_ different shade of a reality that had her blinded by the unpredictable predictability.

Her absence was making her absent.

She had gone for a trial run that day, adding sugar to her coffee for the first time while telling herself, at each sip, at each conscious breath, that the possibility of Bernie not coming back was above the zero she had for so long found comfort in.

It had taken her less than half a shift to come to the realization that the fact Bernie hadn’t said goodbye was the reason why she still found herself looking up expectantly as people reached for the door, _their_ door – it perturbed her.

It was as if they were in some odd stasis, somewhere between nowhere and everywhere, a non-place that shouldn’t be recollected but taken for granted as the constant middle leading to the anticipated end. That was where Bernie had decided, by making no decision whatsoever, to stash them, _us_ , indefinitely.

Perhaps that was all she needed, a word, some sort of _punctuation_ to the paragraph that had the blinking cursor threatening to quit the safety of its job.

She had _chosen_ Hanssen. She had _chosen_ to telephone him, to text him, to email him, to send him a letter, perhaps even a bloody telegram, a pigeon or smoke signals or whatever other shape of communication there was. She had _chosen_ to _stay_ – but somewhere else, somewhere far, somewhere unreachable by touch.

She had _chosen_ Hanssen _over_ her, almost as if she had, as a co-lead, as a colleague, as a friend, simply _ceased_ to exist.

Disappointment.

Oh, she understood Bernie’s reluctant relationship with the concept of returning. She had left, she had created a storm in her wake and had walked away. She had managed to destroy a world while at the same time avoiding all the shards – all but the ones, of course, which she already carried inside, _self-inflicted_ , guilt running through veins disguised as blood.

_I don’t want to hurt you because I care about you._

_I don’t want you to hurt because I care about you too_ , Serena had wanted to whisper against her mouth before kissing every single doubt away.

Alas, she hadn’t been given time or space to voice what she had wanted. Instead, she had been gifted distance that might have had the other woman out of sight, but certainly not out of mind.

Serena had no doubt that the other woman was hurting, _grieving_ , in all probability drowning herself in work as to not have to deal with her own reflection, with looking into her own eyes that had always remained true to a heart constantly battling the thick skin born from the dry desert.

The band aid would have to come off though, sooner or later, and as she offered yet another olive branch by pressing send, she just pleaded for sooner rather than later because the path to indifference, to _triviality_ , was one that tolerated no interludes once started.

Sitting by the fire, the clutter of the hospital replaced by the crackling of wood, hands nursing a cup of tea she had decided would from now on replace the bottle that had started tasting threateningly of routine, Serena felt almost… _content_.

Instead of breaking the silence like thunder, the ping from her phone had somehow blended with the scene as if a script had previously been written to avoid frightening the actress and creating an atmosphere that would not match the tone of the following text.

“ _Can we do this?_ ”

Things cannot be reversed, but they can certainly be amended.

“ _Serena Campbell, have we met?_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> I am writing my way into forgiving Bernie.


End file.
